𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙬𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙄𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙

They've always called me the angel. Not because I was sweet or had beautiful hair or a voice like honey, but because I knew how to keep my mouth shut. I said "please" and "thank you," folded napkins the right way, and kept my shoes clean.

I was good at hiding my sadness behind good posture and polite silence. I was the daughter who made everything easier.

Mirren never really forgave me for that. Being 'the good one' wasn't a badge of honor; it felt more like a gag. It meant I had to stay quiet at dinner, grin when I didn't want to, and get praised for doing what nobody even asked of me.

Elizabeth always thinks of others. Elizabeth sets a good example. Elizabeth helps hold the family together. It felt more like being on display, like I was trapped in a glass box. Mirren saw it, but she didn't know how to break the glass without hurting both of us. Our last fight before summer wasn't even really a fight. Just the two of us at home.

Mirren tried to break the script. She really did. She wasn't wrong for trying. I watched her, wanting to be her and hating her just for being herself. But I still braided her hair when she asked, still snuck cherry popsicles from the fridge for her after curfew, and forgave her every time she spat out words that tasted like jealousy and loneliness. Because she was my sister, and I didn't know how to exist without her. Because I was the angel-and angels are supposed to love unconditionally.

They don't tell you that when you're the golden one, people stop asking if you're happy. They just assume you are

The angel child. Perfect. Polished. Unbroken. But now, there was no one left to know the truth. No one to whisper, I see you in the quiet. No one to say, You don't have to be this all the time. Just an island full of echoes.

And me.

Elizabeth Taylor Sinclair.

The girl who was too good to grieve out loud.